The pen is mightier
by StumpyTPDimples
Summary: It started like 99% of their actions do; a stupid idea by Clint that he thought would make her smile. It ended like 0% of their actions do; and Clint loved that fact.


OK! This is just a random little one shot that's like a series of one shots cause yeah! My car broke and I had to travel an hour and a half on bus each day, so these were scribbled up and I finally typed them all together! While listening to the farmhouse song on repeat which just broke my heart a little.. It's too pretty a song lads..

Thanks for giving me back my muse, BlackHawk's Child! Seems like you just stuffed him with too many Clintasha ideas!

Let me know what you think! :)

DISCLAIMER! I don't own Marvel or anything associated with it. I know, my disclaimers are usually alot more creative, but man I just wrote 10,000, nearly 11,000 words or so and yeah!

* * *

It started like 99% of their actions do; a stupid idea by Clint that he thought would make her smile.

It started like 99% of their actions do; something Clint decided one day would just be something that would die out and would be forgotten in no time.

It ended like 99% of their actions do; something that ended up helping them during missions, something that would let them know how the other was when they couldn't talk to them.

It ended like 0% of their actions do; and Clint fucking loved that fact.

* * *

 **February, 2003.**

The mission ran seriously over time. He should have been back within a week, but it turned into nearly three. By the time he got back to the states, she was already gone on the next mission they were meant to take together. Trains, planes, and SHIELD missions waited for no man!

Nothing bad happened to cause his delay, just the mark he needed to take out being stubborn and not surfacing. The de-brief took a while and, when he was finally dismissed, he found himself driving to the familiar apartment of his best friend. He had a spare key, and she always had food. Where as he was pretty sure after three weeks away that whatever food he stocked his own cupboards full of would be growing civilisations of their own right about now.

Besides, he was exhausted and fed up. She was always the one he went to when that happened. Even if she wasn't there, her presence would be, and that would be more than enough to help him relax.

Her mission was currently classified, even though Clint was supposed to be on it aswell. That meant that Clint hadn't a clue how long she'd be gone. Classified's plus Natasha Romanoff usually means long term assignments. She was only a year in SHIELD, he was only three, and they were already the most trusted agents the agency had. So much so, that Fury wasn't even going to give him the week off all agents were supposed to have between missions. He never usually did anyway. He'd be sent back out within the next three days, and he didn't mind.

Alot of targets these days meant that the archers skill set was in constant demand from the ever jolly council.

He let out a tired sigh as he sat on her sofa, resting his head back as he waited for the pasta in the pot to finish cooking. She was going to kill him. He was always being told not to sit on her sofa in his filthy mission gear. But he was too tired to change right now so it'd have to do!

Once fed and watered and nicely showered, he climbed into her bed and fell into a much needed, and much appreciated, 20 hour sleep. He probably would've slept longer, would've happily slept longer in fact, but the buzzing of his phone jolted him back to the land of the living.

"Barton." He said as a simple greeting, sighing when Fury's voice replied as stern as ever informing him that another mark had popped up for the archer to deal with.

"Be there in thirty, sir." He responded to the older mas order, dropping the phone then to rub some sleep from his eyes. He had clean mission gear on base that he'd have to get since the ones from the previous mission in the apartment were completely destroyed.

He smiled a little sheepishly at the state he was leaving the apartment in. He had planned on cleaning it before he left, but now it seemed he wouldn't have a chance.

Not knowing when he'd next get the chance to explain himself to Natasha; he decided to write a quick note to let her know what happened.

 _Nat,_  
 _You weren't burgled! It was just your favourite archer! :D_  
 _I got back safe and sound and missed you so I stayed over._  
 _Let me know when you're back. We need a catch up._  
 _Clint._

He left it on the fridge where it would be seen before leaving with a smile, wondering to himself how sore his head would be when she saw it and smacked him with the fridge.

 _x_

He probably should be used to this exhaustion. He's been a part of SHIELD for, what, three years now? Three long years of missions like that and of missions ending like that, but the aches still persisted, the pain and complaints from his bones and muscles still stood tall.

No matter how long he's been at it, there's no way a person's body will ever be used to lying sniper position on a blistering hot rooftop for two days straight.

Even opening his apartment door was a struggle. He should be reporting to Coulson right about now, going into yet another de-brief, but he gave Fury a call - because believe it or not he's alot less scary than Coulson when it comes to these things - and told him he needed a shower and a rest first.

He wouldn't be able to sit in a stuffy board room for an hour at least in this state without killing someone.

Once the door was opened, he quite unceremoniously dropped his duffel bag, bow, and quiver onto the floor before going straight to his sink. Dehydration had begun to set in a few hours ago, but between the landing site and his apartment, with no dollars on him, there was no where to stop for any form of liquid relief.

He smiled to himself when he caught sight of the photo on the wall. Natasha always teased him for the personal touch, but it was his home, so he wanted personal, wanted normal. It was a photo of the pair of them after their first mission together. Coulson took it as the two of them approached the evac pint. He said it was just a 'Kodak' moment he couldn't possibly pass up.

He was glad his handler didn't pass it up.

She still didn't really trust him at that time, but on that mission he took a bit of a blow to the head during a fight and was battling one massive concussion. So, she was actually laughing at something he said in the snap, his idiotic grin beaming out aswell. His arm was around her neck, helping him to the evac. He didn't remember the time at all, but it was definitely a favourite of his.

After finishing enough water to avoid another hospital visit the archer moved slowly to his bathroom. He let a bath draw as he stripped out of the gear he was starting to get sick of.

Usually, he'd be just a quick shower kind of guy. But the aftermath of missions were different. After missions, he desperately needed to soak all the stress from his muscles and grime from his skin.

He left his aids on the side of the sink, not wanting to go to Coulson tomorrow with yet another water damaged pair. Though, 9 and a half times out of ten it was accidental damage! He would still argue that Natasha throwing him in the Hudson when he annoyed her wan't to be counted as accidental..

He let out a content sigh as he lowered himself into the hot water, making a mental note of all the bruises and cuts he had to tend to later once he was finally relaxed in the tub. He let his eyes fall closed, fully happy for the first time in a while.

Next time he opened his eyes though, confusion spread through his mind.

It was dark which it shouldn't be. The tub was empty, which it definitely shouldn't be. He must've slipped into a sleep, because it was just about late morning when he got in.

Sighing, he carefully stood up. Even though he didn't remember the bath, his body felt so much better after it.

He switched on the light above his sink and put his aids back in his ears. He froze when he reached to grab a towel though. The radiator was on. That wasn't what had him freezing though. Hanging on it was not only his towel, but his pyjamas and a dressing gown aswell.

Something wasn't right..

He quickly dried himself and pulled on the pyjamas, grabbing his glock from the cupboard under the sink then to stalk out to the main living area.

Something smelled good, that's for sure. When he got to the kitchen area, he jumped out from behind the wall with his weapon raised and ready to take on any and all attackers.

None came.

There was a pot simmering on the stove, fresh groceries in bags on the counter. Upon closer inspection, the smell reminded him of Natasha's vegetable soup, his favourite on cold nights.

"Nat?" He called curiously, knowing if it was her that she'd answer.

There was nothing.

He huffed in confusion and scratched the top of his head, looking around for any sign that it was her here.

He paused once more when his eyes landed on something taped to their photo. Cautiously, he moved over to it, smirking a little at the neat cursives staring back at him.

 _Idiot,_  
 _Next time you break and steal my food, I'll drown you in the tub instead of emptying it!_  
 _I'm back safe and sound, looks like you are too._  
 _Eat, sleep, and I'll come over tomorrow._  
 _-Natasha._

He re-read the note a few times, his grin growing each time he did.

He didn't throw it out like most people would. Instead, as he poured himself a bowl of soup, he folded it up and put it in his safe drawer.

He was damn lucky she didn't drown him..

* * *

 **August, 2005**

Two years.

That's how long it's been since they first started writing shitty little notes to eachother.

After each mission or just any time one would visit and the other wasn't there. Most would call it crazy, tell them just to text or call one another to let them know things. Phil said it enough times alright, but he just didn't seem to understand what it meant. He couldn't understand why Clint had to visit Natasha's apartment after a mission before doing anything else.

But it had to be done. Because it had transformed from something silly that partners would do to annoy the other. It transformed into a reassurance, a kind of settling action that let them know the other was ok enough to visit and write, that the other had come home. It let the other know, without having to beg Fury or Coulson for information, that they weren't face down dead in a ditch somewhere or hooked up to a billion machines in some AIM base interrogation room.

So when he was hurt, not even on a mission, just attacked by some old comrades of his from his crime days, there was only one place he went to before even thinking of going to a hospital. He didn't know if it was the concussion he most likely had, or the stab wound to the side that was causing a little too much blood loss, but something had him terrified he wouldn't make it through this time.

Climbing the stairs to he apartment had him breathless. The pain searing through his body with each breath let him know that the damn blade nicked something it definitely shouldn't have. His double vision made it near impossible to open the door, but soon enough, he managed it.

Glancing down to his left side, he noticed the blood had begun to seep even more through his fingers and onto the floor in little red drops, as if ignoring the little bit of pressure he was applying to it as well as the thick jacket and t-shirt in it's path aswell.

From his pocket he pulled out a pen and grabbed a piece of paper from one of her drawers in the kitchen to write her a note he was positive would be his last. He was hoping she'd be here, but the lack of a gun being pointed at him told him that she was out, so this would have to do.

 _Nat,_  
 _I know this it the wrong way to ask, but go on a date with me. I'll even wear a suit._  
 _I came to ask you, but you're not here._  
 _Just let me kn_

He couldn't finish writing it.

His 'Chicken Scratches', as she calls them, just looked worse to his blurry eyes and the note was stained with red drops from somewhere. His head or mouth, he couldn't figure out which one. Could be both.

He tried fight the blackness for as long as he could, even just long enough to finish the note and tell her how he felt. But he couldn't.

The world began tilting as it went black, and he was gone before he even hit the floor.

 _x_

He hated this part of his injuries more than the injury itself. Coming around from being knocked out is quite possibly the worst experience you can go through. Within reason anyway!

His head was thumping and heavy, yet numb and floating at the same time. His throat itched and his body didn't feel like it was his at all.

For as long as he could manage, he kept his eyes shut, because he knew that he was in a hospital and hospital lights would just kill his head even more than it already was.

The steady beep of a heart monitor was a bad sign. That meant he was in bad enough shape to need heavy monitoring. That usually meant surgery.

Sure enough, moving a little was met with the tell tale pull and stretch of stitches on his side.

What happened? He couldn't really recall. Slowly, as his mind cleared, little snippets began to come through.

Concussed. Sharp blow to the head, he remembered that.

Six guys. He knew them, he knew he did, but he couldn't make out heir faces right now and it was bugging him.

"Agent Barton?"

Dammit.

Nurses were the greatest things on this fucked up planet, but he hated them when they tried drag him away from his waking up thoughts. Because once they were gone, there was pretty much no getting them back.

"Yeah.." He tried say when she called his name again, but it came out more as a croak than anything else.

He finally peeked his eyes open and saw the nurse standing by his side, the blonde holding a soft smile as she checked his machines. "Welcome back."

He went through the usual post-attack check, testing everything for himself before relaying anything that worried him to the medical staff. The nurse listened with a 'I don't believe any of that shit' kind of face when he told her he felt fine. When she told him his list of injuries, he knew why she didn't believe a word he said.

Concussion, busted ribs, bruised spine, and a knife wound that also managed to slice a nice cut into his lung.

It was her last few words that had him speechless though. "We lost you for a while."

He was out for two weeks, touch and go, but a few days ago he was taken from ICU and, now, here he was. When she gave him some water and sat the bed up so he was a little more comfortable, she left him to his thoughts.

He's had near death close calls before, but never had he lost the battle for a while. Not once has his heart stopped. It had him a little too spoked for words.

He sighed and ran his IV free hand though his hair, glancing to his side to see if he could reach the water on the cabinet. He paused when something caught his attention.

A box of protein bars.

He never liked chocolates, not while sick anyway. Too heavy on the system while all you're doing is lying in bed. But only one person knew how much he loved protein bars.

He smiled a little when he spied a folded piece of paper by the box, _'Clint'_ written neatly on the front of it. With a little effort, he managed to just grab the paper with the tips of his fingers before pulling it over to him. The familiar writing stared out at him.

 _Barton,_  
 _Next time you want to bleed out on my floor, just don't._  
 _You fucking ass._  
 _-Natasha._

He smiled a little sadly at the words, reading it once or twice more before folding it back up. He raised an eyebrow when words on the opposite side caught his eye.

The grin wouldn't leave his face for the rest of the day.

 _The Saturday after you get out._  
 _That Italian place you like._  
 _8pm._  
 _Don't you dare be late._  
 _-Tash._

The Saturday after he got out, he was there. It was only a day after he was released from hospital, but he suited up in the best suit Phil could find for him and he had his first proper date with Natasha Romanoff.

Neither mentioned any injuries or any near death experience.

And neither mentioned the news that six former carnies mysteriously found themselves hanging by their feet over the Mississippi River with the exact same injuries Clint had suffered.

* * *

 **March, 2009.**

She's an idiot. That's all he could say on the matter right now.

She is an idiot.

She calls him an idiot all the time, but no, this takes the cake!

An unsanctioned mission! She accepted another un-fucking-sanctioned mission from Fury without telling him!

He knew why, of course. Because after the one last year ended with her in a pool of blood, Clint had made her promise on all she held dear that she wouldn't take the things ever again. They're usually fine, she's usually in and out in no time at all, before he even realised she took the job. So when he did realise, and confront her about it, she'd usually reply with 'I'm fine, amn't I? You worry for nothing.'

But he has plenty of reasons to worry. Since these are unsanctioned, there's no chance of back up, no evac, no communication other than check in with Fury every day. These were dangerous jobs. So dangerous that they were even things the World Security Council declined. But they were usually missions that Fury wanted undertaken, and when he wanted something done, he found a way to get it done.

He never minded helping the boss out, no issue with it at all. Strike team Delta were the best of the best, they could get these things done in no time at all. But he just always begged the older man to send them as a team, not solo. Solo was way too dangerous, even for them.

This time proved just that. Maybe now the pair of them would listen to Clint and cop on!

He knew something was wrong when he was called back from a mission early. Seeing Fury's number pop up on a secure burner phone never meant good news. Hearing that she accepted a unsanctioned mission from the man had Clint hanging up straight away and getting the next flight to the States.

She missed her check in.

That mightn't sound too bad, but it was three days in a row it was missed. One day, fine, she might have forgotten. That often happens to the pair, and if you're on your own it's alot easier to forget. Two usually means she's a little too deep in her cover to make contact, so it did usually raise eyebrows, but it was never fully questioned. Three just wasn't like Natasha at all. She was usually the one kicking Clint's ass to call at his check in times, she knew how important they were. So she would never miss three in a row.

On the fourth day, the day Fury called him, SHIELD were sent video footage. It showed Natasha tied to the ceiling with chains, hanging limply with blood pouring from nearly everywhere. Her eyes were just about open, a haunting look in them that let Clint know she wasn't in her right mind. They didn't look right, didn't look like Natasha's, and that's what scared him. It was this footage that had an entire rescue operation called.

But Clint cancelled it. He cancelled the full Strike Team call. He didn't need others. He could do it just fine. It was his job to get her out of tricky situations.

And, honestly, he didn't trust many others to find and bring back his girlfriend. If faced with a tricky call, he knew most of the Strike Team agents would take the option of leaving her to die, or the worse option of killing her themselves if she had them compromised in any way.

He had to be the one to get her out, not anyone else. The look in her eyes in that video told him that more than anything. Something wasn't right here, and he wasn't going to send innocent agents in if something was a miss.

If he was getting her out, she'd need some gear. She'd need some clothes, some personal effects, most of all she'd more than likely need some weapons. So before he drove to the launch pad, knowing he had a half hour free, he drove to her apartment.

Their apartment, so she called it. Honestly, alot of his stuff was there. Alot of his clothes, a nice drawer full of arrows, some personal items aswell. But that's just because she liked her apartment more than his, so in the rare instance that they are in the same place for long enough, she liked him staying with her there rather than her staying with him in his little studio flat.

He quickly packed a duffel bag for her, some fresh clothes and shower smelly stuff that she liked in it along with her trusty glock and some spare widow bites he knew were malfunctioning a little, but they'd be better than none at all.

He paused when he passed a familiar drawer in the kitchen, the one holding random bits and bobs of hers, and which he knew held a notepad. He growled a little to himself and pulled out some paper, dropping the duffel bag so he could write her a note like he always did.

If this was to be his last mission - which it very well could be considering he was about to storm a fully stocked and guarded AIM base by himself - then he needed her to know how stupid she was for this.

 _Idiot,_  
 _This is why I told you not to take these fucking missions!_  
 _Now I have to go rescue your ass because you never listen to me!_  
 _When I save you, I'm going to kill you!_  
 _I swear, you're lucky I love you, otherwise this worry would be enough to make me hate you!_  
 _Clint._

He stuck it to the fridge like he always did before storming from the apartment, the door slamming fiercely behind him.

 _x_

He let out a tired sigh when he made it to his apartment door, leaning on the crutches for a moment to try catch his breath. His vision was blurring a little, but that was more than likely just to do with the effort of climbing those stairs. He really had to talk to the building manager about fixing that elevator.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" Phil asked, his voice full of concern. Clint could feel his eyes on him as the archer opened his door.

"I'll be fine, boss.." He said quietly, hobbling his way into his little apartment. Phil followed, carrying Clint's duffel aswell as some shopping bags.

"I'll call you every few hours, ok?" He eventually said, busy putting away the few groceries he picked up for the archer as Clint sat at the table. "I really don't think you should have checked yourself out.."

"I was in there for three weeks, Phil." Clint cut him off with a sigh, rubbing at his forehead to try warn off the headache that was thumping away right now. "I was going insane.."

"You walked right into a AIM trap and nearly died, Clint.." Phil said quietly, sliding a glass of water across the table to him, two little painkillers following. He took them with a small smile.

"I'll be fine.." He said once more, giving his handler a grateful smile to back it up. "Knowing Natasha, she'll be over in an hour anyway.."

"You still mad at her?" Coulson asked with an eyebrow raised, grabbing his keys once all the shopping was away. He didn't answer, because he didn't know. "It wasn't her fault.."

"She accepted the mission.." He said lowly, watching the table with a frown. "Just once I wish someone would listen to me.. I'm not stupid, I know what I'm talking about.."

A gentle squeeze on his shoulder drew his gaze up to his boss, a warm smile greeting him. "Don't be too mad. You won't get a second chance."

He left Clint then, the archer letting out another sigh once he heard the door close.

He stood up a moment later, grabbing his crutches to hobble his way to the bathroom. He frowned at the reflection that stared back at him.

Three weeks, and he still had cuts and bruises all over his features. The black eyes were fading at least, but the broken nose was still wrapped up and killing him. Lower down, the pain slowly got worse. Fractured ribs and a ruptured spleen nearly had him killed, even if the gashes didn't make him bleed out. His knee was shot, literally. A bullet sent right through it, meaning that it would take a nice bit of physiotherapy to walk properly again. It was in a nice cast right now, thankfully the damage wasn't as bad as it could be. He looked thinner, felt thinner, but it was his damn pride that was hurt more than anything.

It was a trap from the word go. Even Fury couldn't see it, and even one eyed, that man usually sees everything.

Natasha was there alright, but she was still playing undercover. She was made, but they didn't try take her out. They found out who she was, found out that she was part of Hawkeye's team, and sent an edited video to get him there aswell so they could take the pair out. Whatever computer genius they had playing on their side needed to be taken out. He perfectly photo-shopped Natasha's face onto someone else from security camera footage. It was no wonder her eyes looked so dead, they were just edited in at the time.

He sighed and shook his head, wincing a little at the creak in his neck before hobbling out towards his room.

He ran right into the entire AIM bases security force, agents just waiting for him to show up. He was shot at, three bullets landing and sending him into a world of blackness. When he woke, he was the one captured, Natasha in the cell with him trying her best to treat the injuries that were killing him.

She tried. But in the end, it took everything he had to stay with her.

The only reason they got out was because Fury sent more teams. Natasha wouldn't leave him, not matter how many times he told her to, no matter how many chances she had, she wouldn't go without him. That's what he was mad about. The fact that she seemed happy enough to nearly sacrifice herself just because he couldn't move from the spot he was in without bleeding out.

She was fine. A bit of a head wound and a sprained wrist. He wouldn't let her in his hospital room, not really ready to face her knowing she doomed herself for him. Like he said; his pride was hurt.

He sighed to himself when his head hit his pillows, the familiarity of his bed and the comfort of his own mattress after so long helping him relax more than any pills would manage.

He frowned a little in confusion when something ruffled under his head. Reaching back, he pulled the piece of paper from the pillow, frowning even more when he saw his name on the folded up page.

She was here so..

He stared at the ink marking his name for a moment or two before finally deciding he should read whatever she had to say this time.

The simple note had him taking out his phone immediately and dialling the familiar number of his girlfriend.

 _I'm sorry, Clint._  
 _I love you._  
 _-Tash x_

That would forever be known known as the first time Natasha Romanoff told Clint Barton she loved him.

* * *

 **November, 2012.**

He didn't know how to describe it. Like if you put a gun to his head - which is pretty much what the World Security Council did - and told him to tell you what actually happened, he wouldn't be able to.

Things fucked up, that's what happened.

And not in a relatively simple botched mission sense of the term, but in a 'I have no idea what the fuck just happened' sense of the term.

Aliens.

Aliens attacked. These creatures from outer space, the kind he saw when he was younger after sneaking into movie screens, the kind he thought were just sci-fi bullshit, they attacked New York.

They destroyed New York and, dammit, would've done the same to the rest of the world had they have kept going, had the the council not decided to nuke the damn place to smithereens.

Aliens, as crazy as this may sound, he probably would've been able to deal with. Once he learned they bleed, he knew they'd be just like any other opponent he ever faced. He knew they could kill them. But then there was something worse, something he still can't explain.

There was Loki.

Even thinking of the name right now had him wanting to get sick. Loki, brother of Thor - who made an appearance aswell by the by!

Gods.

Monsters and magic and nothing he's ever trained for.

He thought it would be a simple mission. He's seen magic before, he was in New Mexico when Thor made his first appearance on Earth, nearly tried take the guy out with an arrow to the eye socket. So when Fury personally asked him to keep his eyes on these Tesseract projects, he saw no reason to say no to the boss. He knew it was alot more than just needing security in the room. If that was all he needed, two senior agents could do the job to the same level Clint could.

Fury didn't trust the council's plans. Clint could tell that by the tone of 'Keep and eye on things for me.'.

Fury knew that everyone in SHIELD was loyal to SHIELD. But being loyal to SHIELD for other agents means being loyal and following orders from the council. Only a handful were in SHIELD for Fury - Clint and Natasha being the highest on that list under Maria and Phil.

Phil..

Clint groaned a little and hid his face in the couch cushion, letting the near empty beer bottle fall from his hand to the floor so he could cover his ears.

The voices wouldn't stop.

Even when he ripped out his hearing aids and smashed them, they wouldn't stop. It had been nearly two weeks and Loki was still in there just waiting for some chance to strike and take the archer out again.

Alcohol helped. He was never one for the stuff, just the odd occasion or maybe when he went out for dinner with Natasha. But a week and a half ago he discovered that it quietened the voices. Sometimes it would even be enough to shut them up completely. Today didn't appear to be one of those lucky days.

He was through his second six pack and still they plagued his mind.

He hadn't moved from his position face down on the sofa much at all in the past two weeks, with the exception of going to get more beer each day and going to pay the pizza man each evening. The first three days he willingly ignored his phone, and soon that ran out of battery. He knew his house phone must be going crazy, but his aids were out and destroyed so he couldn't hear it. The only reason he even knew the pizza man would be at his door was because he knew it took exactly 17 minutes to make and deliver the food.

Sometimes he'd get it wrong, either being too early and being at the door before the kid even got there or being late and knowing the young man was waiting patiently for the archer. Every time either happened, Clint would receive such a sad and sorry look from the guy. It made him sick.

He didn't deserve pity didn't deserve to be felt sorry about or to have people worry about him or his well being. He deserved exactly what the council wanted - a solitary confinement cell in somewhere as far away from the United States as physically possible. Fury actually shot the screens through when one of them suggested that, and the 'war criminal' comment that followed the suggestion just pissed the Director off that little bit more.

They couldn't put Loki on trial for the crimes, but for them, the Gods own personal lackie would be more than enough.

It was after that hearing that Clint locked himself away. He couldn't face people, people who's lives he destroyed. So he confined himself to his own kind of solitary confinement.

There was no more drink left. It shouldn't have upset him as much as it did, but it really did. It was already 4am, so no where would be open to serve him anymore. He sighed to himself and buried his face in the couch, letting the darkness take him away for another little while.

The world was spinning when he next came to. Maybe 12 bottles and no food really wasn't his smartest idea the day before..

Groaning, he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the sofa. His hands gripped the cushions like they were his last life line, trying his best to fight away the bout of nausea that was threatening to bring the alcohol back up.

He raised an eyebrow when a familiar and very welcome scent filled his nostrils, his head snapping up from it's fixation on the floor. He was a little shocked at the sight of the place.

It was spotless.

The floor was completely clear of all his discarded beer bottles and the pizza boxes. He could see into his kitchen from where he sat, his apartment being completely open plan, and noticed a bowl of fresh fruit on the table and a pot of coffee sitting on it's hot plate on the counter top. He'd bet anything that if there's fruit on the table then his cupboards were probably stocked up with actual food too.

He was deaf, he knew he was vulnerable, and incredibly drunk last night, so that didn't help. But he knew only one person could be subtle enough to do all this without waking him.

Sure enough, when he finally got the strength to stand without falling back down straight away, he went to find a note stuck to the coffee pot in true Strike Team Delta fashion. He frowned a little at the simple message.

 _Clint,_  
 _We're here for you._  
 _Love, Natasha. x_

How selfish had he been?

He's been locked up here pretty much killing himself, thinking no one on the outside would actually give a shit or should give a shit. But they were probably all struggling too. Maybe not as much as Clint, maybe not in the same kind of way should he say, but they were.

And instead of being out there helping the team that helped save New York from certain destruction, he locked himself away in the hopes it would end everything.

For the first time since the attack, for the first time since losing his mind, losing Phil, nearly losing everything. For the first time since locking himself away like a criminal - he sunk down against a cupboard in his kitchen, and he let himself cry everything out of his system.

 _x_

He showered. Accomplishment number 1.

He shaved and brushed his hair. Number 2.

Ate something healthy and good for his body and cleaned up after himself. Number 3.

That note from Natasha yesterday really helped kick his ass into gear. He thinks that it managed to put things into perspective, managed to break down whatever bullshit walls he built up. He wasn't alone in this. He never was, even if he tricked himself into believing otherwise.

He now had a whole team to think about, to think about him, not just Natasha anymore.

He had to check up on them, make sure they were doing ok, make sure they didn't need him. He needed to make sure they knew he was here for them. Because he was, even though the past couple of weeks mightn't seem like it.

He left the apartment. Major accomplishment.

He had himself on a mission right now, and when Hawkeye had a mission in his mind, pretty much nothing could stop him.

He pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself as he made his way along the chilly New York streets, moving through the crowds of people towards the familiar apartment block, armed with a red rose and a note.

Once at Natasha's apartment he quickly opened the door, placed the items on the floor and closed it behind him before leaving just as quickly as he arrived. He couldn't face her just yet.

Besides, he had a billionaire to go see about some new hearing aids. He just hoped the little note would be enough for her like they always were.

 _Thank you, Nat._  
 _Love you._  
 _-C x_

* * *

 **July, 2015**

This new arrangement was something he seriously loved.

If you came up to him a few years ago and said to him that he'd be living in a nice apartment in New York with someone he loved, he'd have laughed in your face and called you absolutely insane.

Yet, here he was, in the middle of their kitchen, blushing at a rather suggestive note left by his other half.

Solo missions were more and more frequent as of late. Since joining the Avengers pretty much full time, their faces were too easily recognised. Especially if they were together. They were the only ones in the group who rely on skill and nothing else, so, naturally, the media and a fair few people try keep up with them.

It was Steve's idea to keep the pair apart as much as possible.

Really, the only time he gets to work with her now-a-days is when the Avengers are actually needed. That's getting less and less frequent. Her missions tracking down Bucky with Cap are getting more and more frequent, and are getting longer each time. His missions of taking out the few remaining stragglers of Hydra bases are getting more and more frequent, and a hell of alot more difficult with each pass.

Once he takes down one, all of those who called it home would run to another. Meaning, at this stage, it was more like taking out 4 bases at a time instead of just the one.

He was learning to really hate seeing Fury's name show up on his phone. Still though, it was something to keep him busy while Natasha was away hunting the one armed soldier with best friend issues.

He really did wish Steve the best with it all, but he just wished he could leave Natasha at home so Clint wouldn't miss her so much!

 _Barton,_  
 _Just missed you.._  
 _Was so looking forward to those hands of yours.._  
 _Mine had to make do.. Might want to change those sheets.._  
 _Miss you, Clint._  
 _Love, Natasha. x_

He smirked a little to himself as he read the words for the fifth time, shaking his head at them then before going to their room to change from his mission gear and into something more comfortable.

That's how it was with them recently. Their little notes that started all those years ago had changed from a necessity to let the other know they're ok to something to try make the other smile after returning home.

They'd know the other was here without needing notes now-a-days. Bed would be made differently, or not at all in Clint's case. Food would be missing, more ammo gone, basically the apartment looking a little more lived in usually told them that the other was here and well.

He grabbed the little first aid kit from the bed side cabinet when stripped to his boxers and brought it to the bathroom. He washed out the gash on his side as carefully as he could managed.

He was stupid and thought that jumping through a window at the last base would be a perfect idea!

Glass was sharp, kids. Remember that!

Once all the dirt and grime was cleaned, he sat on the toilet lid and opened the little kit. An eyebrow raised when he saw a note taped to the inside of the lid.

 _Do it right this time, stud._  
 _Don't want another infection._  
 _-Nat x_

Did he ever mention that he loved that woman? Because he seriously did.

He never thought he'd be so lucky to land someone like her, both in the shallow look wise sense of the term and the more human sense of the term.

It was these little things; re-stocking the first aid kit because he always forgot, reminding him to take out his hearing aids each night even when she's not by his side, making him dinner when the days get bad and he doesn't feel like making his own or even eating for that matter.

She's not one for saying 'I love you' too often, but those little moments tell him that she does more than words ever could.

He was always a little more forward with his feelings. Her notes would be suggestive, calculated to make him blush and give him that 'Stupid little laugh' - as she calls it. He can't help it when he wakes to her gone for a few days and the only thing to remind him of her until she comes home includes words like 'Be a while until I can walk right now!' or 'Excited just thinking of what I'm going to do to you when I'm home.. I need a cold shower..'

Never anything subtle or smart. But enough to embarrass him, and that was always her goal!

His notes were pretty much the complete opposite. His were always about how much he loved her, how beautiful she looked lying in bed in his shirt, how lucky he was to have her in his life. Things to let her know how happy he was that she was by his side, how glad he was that he made that different call all of those years ago.

Thinking of her had him smiling all through patching himself up. She drove him mad.

He didn't know if he liked that feeling or not. When she was here with him, just sitting and reading, or watching a mindless movie with him, even just having a nice quiet dinner together, she sent his heart racing and blood firing.

It got so bad sometimes that he was afraid he'd turn into a cartoon character and his heart would just jump out of his chest.

When she was gone, it was worse. When she was gone, he felt cold, empty. When he was in this apartment without her, he felt like his whole life was wrong and nothing seemed to make it right.

He shook the thoughts form his head and threw his mission gear into the wash hamper, shuffling off to their bedroom then to quite unceremoniously fall onto the bed.

With his head on her pillow, he happily fell into a peaceful sleep in no time.

He's decided, his next mission is to kill a one Nicholas J Fury. Or, at least, block all the man's numbers from his phone.

With a rough sigh, he answered the phone, putting it on speaker since even the act of holding a phone to his ear seemed like too much work.

"What now, boss?" He grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face to try wake himself up.

"I'm no ones boss anymore." Fury's voice would wake anyone up. Or maybe he was just this sharp with Barton to make sure the archer was actually paying attention.

"And I'm no SHIELD agent anymore, sir. But here we are." He sighed as he sat up, stretching out his tired muscles. "Where to?"

"Nice sunny lands of Australia, Hawk! Brief in an hour, wheels up in two." Nick Fury never really was one for goodbyes, nor greetings for that matter. Most times, you're lucky if he's in the mood to talk at all! So, Clint didn't get offended when the click of a hanging up phone quickly followed his bosses words.

A sigh, a change into fresh mission gear, and a cup of coffee later and he was ready to go! He wasn't happy about it. It had been over a month since he last saw or even spoke to Natasha and it was killing him.

He didn't want to be apart from her any longer, couldn't be without her anymore. He needed her to be his, properly his, like he was hers.

He gave a shy grin at the thoughts running through his head, knowing full well this note would probably be the on to get him killed.

He wrote it was neatly as he could and stuck it to the fridge before grabbing his mission bag and leaving the apartment. The words on the paper ran through his mind and gave his stomach giddy butterflies as he shut their door behind him once more.

 _Marry me, Nat._  
 _-Clint. x_

 _x_

No more.

He didn't care how much Fury begged and pleaded, no matter how much even Clint knew the great Hawkeye could handle it, just no more on his own.

It was killing him. He needed a team, needed help, needed to know someone could watch his six while he was watching everywhere else.

As he limped his way up to his apartment, battered and bruised and seriously questioning his decision not to kill Fury when he had a chance, he decided he's giving up for a while. Let Hydra re-group for all he cared. It didn't matter. Whenever he took one base out, another would take it's place.

He smiled a little humourlessly to himself at the thought.

"Cut off one head, two more shall take it's place.." He muttered to himself as he pushed open his door. His wrist was seriously complaining even at that little action! No shooting for a while then! "Fucking bastards.."

With a tired sigh he made his way to the kitchen, having dropped his bag by the door first. He didn't plan on even looking at it for at least as long as that bullshit chasing Hydra bases mission took.

For those that weren't there; that was two fucking months. Two months running from country to country to take out Hydra bases, even a few rogue AIM bases while Fury had him in the area.

The was no end to it, and Barton was getting a little too sick of it now.

"Too old for this.." He sighed to himself, Running a hand through his hair as he sipped some water. He just wanted to climb into bed and not come out until all the memories of the past two months were gone.

So many innocent people hurt or worse, so many caught up in the cross fire of a fight that isn't even close to theirs. When a mortar hit a school - and Clint spent two straight days and nights looking for survivors with a broken wrist, a concussion, fractured ribs, and a nice mixture of cuts and bruises - Fury personally came and pulled the archer away.

He spent the next two weeks in a hospital away from everyone to try get over his shock. His one request; do not, under any circumstances, tell Natasha.

Natasha..

Glancing around the kitchen would tell him that she was definitely here in the past while. The place looked spotless as it always did when she was here, but it jut held the aura of someone living in the space. A sheet hung on the fridge, and when he saw it, his heart actually stopped.

He was so pre-occupied the last couple of weeks that he completely forgot what question he had left for the Widow.

Slowly, almost as if it would disappear from existence if he didn't sneak up on it, he approached the note. Once he had the paper grasped in his hands, there were tears in his eyes at the four simple words written so carefully in that handwriting that felt like home now.

The tears weren't there for what most people would think. The four words definitely not what he expected, not what he wanted for that matter.

 _We need milk._  
 _-Natasha._

We need milk.

We. Need. Milk.

He asked quite possibly the most difficult question anyone could ever ask someone they love and she responds with 'We need milk.'?

His hands were shaking as he let the note fall to the floor, his legs soon giving out and letting his body follow suit.

She's gone again. For who knows how long. If she left him a note then Fury gave her another mission and he probably doesn't even know when the Widow would be back.

He couldn't do it like this anymore. Couldn't be away from her so much anymore. It hurt too much. And even now he wished he did let Nick tell her where he was the past few weeks because maybe then she could have been there to comfort him, to help him get over everything, maybe then they'd be together right now.

He needed her.

He needed her more than she'll ever know, more than he knew until about ten seconds ago. He needed her in his life, and not just for the few hours at a time they might be able to see eachother if they're lucky enough to be in the city at the same time for a night.

He needed her so much but she didn't seem to need him at all and it scared him. Upset him.

He needed to get in touch with her, needed to actually speak with her, he needed to run away with her and just start a life he knew the pair of them seriously deserved.

Grabbing the side of the counter top, he pulled himself up to his feet and walked off to their room to pack up a fresh bag.

Fury would tell him where she is if he annoyed him enough. If he didn't, then Steve definitely would. The good captain never was able to ignore his calls like Natasha and Fury were.

He'd find her, he'd tell everyone they were taking a few months off and weren't to be disturbed. He didn't care if she didn't want to get married, he'd hide away with her anyway, he'd cuddle and love her and make her breakfast each morning and just be a normal couple for a while.

He took pause when he pushed open the bedroom door, having to rub at his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things..

But he wasn't.

There, in the candle light, sitting against the headboard and reading the book she just never seemed to get the time to finish, sat his amazing beautiful girlfriend.

"Thought I heard you come in." She said softly as she put her book down, a soft smile being directed at him.

"Tash.." He whispered like an idiot, a little too shocked at seeing her here to think of anything else to say.

Because she shouldn't be here. She was supposed to be on mission, she was supposed to be gone. He was supposed to be on his way out of the place to go steal her away from whatever task Fury and Rogers had her doing. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't be sitting so casually on the bed, shouldn't be relaxing in those silk pyjamas he bought for her last Christmas when he couldn't figure out a proper present.

But those red curls were here, those full lips that held the most beautiful and breathtaking smile were right infront of him, those eyes that shone like a million stars were locked with his own. She was here. And dammit his breath wouldn't give him a chance to catch it because she was the most beautiful sight he's seen in such a long time.

"Well I missed you." She shrugged before getting out of the bed as gracefully as ever and crossing over to him. Her hand was soft and warm on his cheek, and the amused face she held told him he probably looked like a dumb struck idiot. "So I told the guys that me and you are taking some well deserved and over due R&R time."

Damn, he loved how in sync they were sometimes..

"Fury didn't seem to object to you having time off at all." Without the need for another word after that, he pulled her into his arms for a tight hug. He feared that if he were to let go she'd just disappear into nothing and he'd be left along again.

She knew. He knew she knew what happened on the last mission just by the way she held him, by the way she said Fury had no objections. He knew the former SHIELD director wouldn't be able to hold his piss for long, but he was more than thankful that she knew not to ask and instead just held him while her hand gently massaged the nape of his neck.

He didn't know how long they had been standing there, and quite frankly he didn't seem to care how much time had passed, but he soon felt the soft touch of their mattress beneath him, and welcomed it just as much as he did her embrace.

She didn't let him go. It was her job to ground him in these moments, just like it was his job to do the same for her. They were the only two that possibly could do that for one another.

The bed smelled of her. Even though he was cuddled right up against Natasha, he noticed that the bed held her scent. Vanilla and gunpowder. It would forever be hers in his mind, and it was something he had to remember for the times she wasn't with him and he needed some way of recreating it.

"Cap not need you..?" He whispered after a while. His eyes were closed for that whole time as he listened to her hum a familiar tune, a Russian lullaby she'd sing to him when he really needed help, when he was delirious with fever from a flu, or held up in some hole somewhere in South America waiting for evac with a bullet hole in his thigh, or when he'd wake sweat drenched and nearly screaming from the nightmares that plagued his mind. It would always help. She would always help. He never caught a word of it, nor did he understand it, but he loved when she'd hum the tune because it relaxed him more than anything.

This beat notes.. This moment beat any note she had ever written him. Words were powerful, but nothing could beat the warm embrace of someone you love.

"Probably. But I think my fiancé might need me a little more.."

He didn't move a muscle. He had to have misheard her completely.. She wouldn't say something so important so casually.

From his position on her chest he could hear the chuckle build up before it escaped her lips, those same perfect lips that placed a soft kiss ontop of his head before speaking.

"I love our notes, I really do. They're pretty damn entertaining when I need something to keep me going, when I need something to help me leave here once again. But something as important as 'Of course I'll marry you, Clint.' just looked out of place on a piece of paper.."

Of course I'll marry you..

Did she really try write it? How long had she spent thinking about it? Why the milk note? Or was that something that started as those five words but she had to change out of fear or wrong feelings? He wanted to know the answers to all those questions, but one major one needed answering first.

"So then..?" He asked cautiously, moving so he was leaning up on his elbow and looking down at her. "Will you..?"

She smiled up at him and moved to give him a soft kiss before he could even finish the question. She then whispered to his lips the words he's been dying to hear.

"Of course I'll marry you, Clint.. I wouldn't want it any other way.."

He couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face, couldn't stop the laugh escaping his lips, couldn't stop his body from rolling the pair so he was ontop of his laughing fiancée, definitely couldn't stop the kissing once it started.

And he found that he couldn't stop thinking of ways to turn each and every note she wrote him, each one saved through the years, into the most embarrassing wedding vows imaginable.

* * *

It started like 99% of their actions do; a stupid idea by Clint that he thought would make her smile.

It started like 99% of their actions do; something Clint decided one day would just be something that would die out and would be forgotten in no time.

It ended like 99% of their actions do; something that ended up helping them during missions, something that would let them know how the other was when they couldn't talk to them.

It ended like 0% of their actions do; and Clint fucking loved that fact.

He loved that he was about to make Natasha Romanoff his wife. He loved that he was about to have someone he could call his own forever and always, loved that these little notes not only got him their first date, but gave him the courage to ask her to give him her hand in marriage.

He stared at the blank piece of paper infront of him on the table, the pen spinning around his hand as he tried figure out what he should say.

Writing to her was easy. When it was just Natasha's eyes reading the words it was fine. But he was about to stand up infront of everyone and speak words no assassin should utter, he was about to confess her undying and unyielding love for Natasha infront of all their friends, and that little fact had a mental block placed on him.

He could count the ways he loved Natasha until the cows came home. He could recite every single perfect thing about her to no end and mean every single word. But that was when it was just to her, when it was the two of them alone, when he was confessing feelings to the one he felt them towards. They weren't intended for others to hear.

A knock drew his attention away from the page. Turning his head he saw the face of one Steve Rogers poking in the hotel room door. He held a grin that neither himself or Tony could wipe from their face all day.

"The bride sent me with a message." He said once he stepped in the room, Clint standing to meet him halfway.

He took the piece of paper with a smile, ignoring the chuckle Steve gave at the archers shaky hands.

 _I can feel your nervousness through the walls, Hawk._  
 _You're an assassin, you can do this!_  
 _And afterwards, we can run away together and have the best honeymoon imaginable!_  
 _Don't be nervous, love. Please. I thought that's the bride's job._  
 _See you soon, big guy._  
 _Love, Natasha. x_

He smiled at the words on the page, not feeling at all awkward that Steve was just standing there waiting for some sort of reply as Clint read the note four then five times over.

He loved Natasha more than words could say, but he had to somehow find those words within the next hour.

But that doesn't mean everyone has to hear them.

He placed the note in the inside pocket of his tux jacket, over his heart where it should be. He turned then to return to the table and started writing the vows only Natasha would lay eyes on.

 _Nat,_  
 _I may be nervous, I may be about to throw up, I may be about to go beg Maria to give me an adrenaline shot to make sure I don't pass out up there._  
 _But none of that matters. All that mattes is how happy you've made me. All that matters is that you and I are about to make this whole thing official._  
 _All that matters is that after today, I can officially call you my wife._  
 _I love you more than words can describe. Which is fine, because I'm much better at actions, and I'll spend every day of the rest of our lives proving just how much I love you._  
 _I can't wait to see you._  
 _Love, Clint. x_

He folded the note up and handed it over to Steve.

"Please don't peek.." He said quietly, a shy smile crossing his face. He didn't want anyone else seeing those words because notes were always meant for Natasha's eyes only.

Steve just smiled and nodded. He squeezed Clint's shoulder gently before pulling the archer in for a hug. "I'll see you out there."

Rogers turned and left the room, off to Clint's bride. He'd be giving her away today, and Clint couldn't think of a better person for the job.

He let out a shaky sigh and turned to face himself in the mirror, reaching his hands up to tie up his dickie bow.

He couldn't use the notes as vows. No matter how much he tried over the past few month to turn them into some, he couldn't.

They were something between the two of them, something for their eyes only, something that joined them together in the first place.

No more missions apart, no more splitting up Strike Team; Delta.

But that didn't mean their notes had to stop.

He'd still declare his love for her in that little way, and every other little way he could think of for the rest of his days.


End file.
